Welcome to the Fun House
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: *Oliver just got a wake-up call, and it isn't a good one.* Another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time involving a knife and a whole lot of sass. Complete.


**Title: Welcome to the Fun House  
Word Count: 1982**

 **Notes:** I know, I know, it's Friday and not my usual post day, but I had an epiphany on the drive to class today. I went into a lot of detail on Tumblr and you can find a link to the details at the top of my profile.

Anyway, this has been sitting in my fic collection for a while because I had no idea what to do with it from here, but I had this scene in my head and had to write it. I don't know if there will ever be any more of this because of that, but I wanted to use it as a nice gift for all of you—just for being you. So thank you. Y'all are amazing and I love you, even though I might not always remember to say it. :)

As always, thank you for reading. I love hearing from you all and try my damnedest to answer, but I always read everything you write and take it to heart.

* * *

Agony shoots through Oliver's spine as he goes into consciousness, with perhaps one of the more impressive migraines of his life. While he spent most of his youth hungover, this is _nothing_ like that. Not to mention the fact that he hasn't been that boy in a very long time. Not since the island happened, since he was forced to fight for survival over the last five years.

As that thought comes back to him, he jumps into alertness, eyes opening, his body trying to pull up into a standing position. The pain explodes behind his eyes almost immediately, forcing him back down. "Easy there, killer," a voice calls out, feminine but a little rough around the edges. Her drawl is almost bored, as though his presence in her life is an old development. "The first few minutes hurt like a bitch." There's a pause. "Never really understood that phrase. How does a female dog hurt?" Her voice fades again, as though she realizes she's completely off-topic. "You should probably take it easy—unless you _like_ migraines from hell. Then you should probably keep doing what you're doing."

It takes several minutes before the ache subsides to a manageable level, and he tries opening his eyes again. It hurts, of course, but at least it doesn't make his head feel like exploding would be a kindness. The ceiling above him is smooth and nondescript, giving him little idea of where he is. It's impersonal, which means an office of some sort. More importantly, it is decidedly _not_ the island he came from.

When he turns his head to the side, he's met with a surprisingly young and unfamiliar face. The woman before him has black hair, her heavy eyeshadow and lipstick the same color. A ring is in the left side of her nose and he can see a bar through the top of her right ear. Her lips twist into an almost predatory smile when his eyes meet her blue ones. "Hello, handsome," she says, but it doesn't sound like a compliment in her tone. Then her eyebrows knit together. "You look familiar. Have you ever, by any chance, _lost_ "—she holds up her hands to do air quotes, flashing him black nail polish—"your wallet before?"

Oliver doesn't bother to answer her. He has more pressing questions, ones about the cold blue walls and silver chrome around him. "How long have I been out?" he asks her, his voice raspy with disuse. This place isn't familiar, which means he's probably never been here before in his life. That's more than a little disconcerting; the last time this happened to him, he woke up in Hong Kong with the hospitality of one Amanda Waller. Three meetings with her is more than enough for one lifetime.

She lifts one shoulder, flashing him a leather jacket—black, of course. "Don't know," she says. "You've been here for two days, but they could have grabbed you earlier than that. I lost a week when they snatched _me_. Lawton said he lost a day. Blondie lost six months or so. I think it depends on how much you fought when they captured you."

With a frustrated huff, Oliver realizes that conversing with this woman is giving him more questions than answers. He pulls himself into a sitting position, only to find something sharp against his throat. A look down reveals a butterfly knife that suits the woman on the other end of it oddly well—delicate and deadly at the same time. The fire in her eyes, though, lets him know she has no qualms about using it.

"While you're just sitting here," she warns him slowly, any hint of pleasantry evaporating off her tone, "there's one thing I need to make _abundantly_ clear. I sleep just across the hall. If you think that's an open invitation for you to do go and see what you can get out of the cookie jar tonight, _don't_. Because if you try to reach your hand into _this_ particular cookie jar, I'll cut it off. And maybe some other appendages, too. We clear?"

The bravado behind her voice is impressive, but he can tell there's a very real fear—and threat—lurking beneath. Even still, that's a kind of evil that Oliver had once enjoyed killing men for during in short time in Coast City. "I don't want to hurt you," he assures her, holding up his hands.

Immediately, the knife flicks closed in a fluid motion, but Oliver notices that she still keeps her distance from him, her gaze leery. For the first time, the former billionaire realizes that she's young—maybe as young as he was when he left home on his father's yacht. He studies her for a moment, wondering how someone so _young_ could become so jaded and cynical about the world that she'd draw the worst conclusion about him first. Maybe she's had to grow up fast, not unlike him.

She plays with the knife in her hand, leaning back against the opposite blue wall. "Good, because I don't want to kill you," she retorts. Oliver's eyebrows rise in surprise before deciding that she probably _would_ make good on her threat. As she looks away, still flicking the knife open and closed in elaborate movements, she adds almost apologetically, "My last cellmate was a convicted rapist, so maybe I'm a little jumpy on the issue. Could barely sleep at night. I'm kind of glad the bastard is gone."

Even though he knows the answer, he finds himself asking anyway, "What happened to _him?_ "

The raven-haired woman just fixes him with an impressive eyebrow-raise. "Why do you think they gave me a new roommate?" she counters without missing a beat. "Hint: there are no transfers in this place. The only way to leave without permission is in a body bag." She crosses her arms quickly, looking over his torso with darkening eyes. Only then does he realize he's isn't wearing anything but the cargo pants he brought from the island, his shirt gone and scars on prominent display. She licks her bottom lip before asking, "Do you know how to handle yourself?"

At first, he assumes from her look that she means it with a sexual connotation the way she's staring, but then he realizes she's wanting to know if he can hold his own in a fight. That isn't something he's willing to share; whatever the environment is in this place, he wants to stay as non-threatening as possible for as long as he can. While he's all too familiar with how to fight, he doesn't know how many people there are and he does occasionally have to sleep at night. Choosing to ignore her, Oliver asks, "Where are we?"

Apparently she chooses to ignore him, too. "Because if you don't," she continues as though he hadn't spoken, "I recommend you get friendly with Blondie fast. You have a nice build, and she's always looking for fresh man meat. You might be a slave, but…" She shrugs. "Better a slave than dead or worse in this place. And Blondie _always_ takes good care of her bed bunnies. She's sentimental that way." She stops playing with the knife to stare at her black fingernails. "Blondie doesn't usually fight, but Slade—that's a guy you want to stay away from, by the way—hurt one of her toys. She clawed his eye out with her fingernails. Slade doesn't bother Blondie or her harem anymore."

"I can handle myself," Oliver informs her suddenly. Let her take that as bravado or pride, if she wants, but it's the truth. Then he wonders just how he knows about this woman and how she cares for her partners; a conclusion forms quickly. "Does she take care of _you?_ "

Something about that causes her to snort. "She'd _like_ to," the woman answers, "but she only watches over her playthings and I don't like the price of her protection." She flicks the knife open and closed again. "I think my life is worth a little more than a quick romp in the sheets." Then she throws him that predatory smile again. "They don't mess with me here. But I don't take care of strays—you're on your own."

Another thought crosses his mind and he voices it: "What kind of prison allows inmates to keep weapons?"

The woman laughs as though he's told a joke. "A _prison?_ Is _that_ what you think this is?" she asks, clearly finding humor in it. " _Maybe_ it resembles one—if you took a maximum security prison and built in heavy cybersecurity, threw it in Hell, and gave it the personality of a pissed-off Rottweiler." Finally she puts the knife in the back pocket of her black cargo pants. "They don't give a damn what we do to each other. We're here because they think we have useful skills. But the moment we become more trouble than they're worth, they'll add us to the body count, too."

Sighing, Oliver rises to his feet, deciding that talking to this woman is getting him nowhere. Instead of trying to chat with her further, he walks into the small bathroom adjoining the bedroom he woke up in. Of course the woman follows, watching with interest as he takes the electric razor on the counter and buzzes through the too long, matted tangles of hair both on his head and face.

"You missed a spot," she calls after he starts to study his reflection in the mirror. Without waiting for permission, she buzzes the razor through a spot, putting it down promptly. When he looks at the woman, it's to find new curiosity in her features, recognition peeking through underneath. "You look pretty good for a dead guy, Oliver Queen," she informs him. Then she licks her lip again. "Actually, you look pretty good for a _live_ guy, too." Then she throws him a shirt—a red henley his size—that he catches and pulls on. In the process, the fabric brushes his neck, causing a short, sharp pain.

He ignores that as well, his fingers skimming along the back of his neck in confusion. The skin is sensitive, and there's a ridge there that wasn't before. "You know who I am, but who are you?" he asks her, trying to turn in the mirror to see the injury he doesn't remember. Then he can't help but tack on, "And what are you here for?"

"Smoak," is all she answers, leaning against the door frame. Then her head tilts to the side as she makes a face and adds a first name, "Felicity." Then she gives him part of a smile. "I'm here for trying to save the world. You?"

"Surviving," Oliver answers honestly. That's all he's been doing for the last five years—that _hasn't_ been government-sanctioned, of course. He frowns as he fingers the stitches in the back of his neck, the place irritated and red. "Felicity," he asks her slowly, "what is this?"

She pushes off from the door facing, lifting her purple-streaked hair to show him a similar scar on the back of her neck. Hers, however is much older than his own, just a small, white line. "That's their insurance policy," she answers when she turns back around. " _That_ is the reason we're free to roam around this compound, why there are no guards. There's a tracker in that—along with a tiny little bomb. So if you try to climb the wall, you lose your head. Literally. I've seen a few terminations." She points at him. "So stay inside the wall. I'd hate to see you lose your pretty little head." Somehow she manages to make it sound like a threat.

With that, she turns and walks away, calling over her shoulder, "Welcome to the Suicide Squad."


End file.
